Throw a Nickel on the Sand
by ice73
Summary: [AU] Saki Vashtarl's faction has won control of Asran, but during his reign trouble flares again. The descendants of the mercenary squadrons of Area 88 go into battle once more. My first Area 88 fic. Rated M for profanity.
1. Iffa

**Disclaimer:** Area 88 © Kaoru Shintani/TV Asahi. This work is not intended for commercial gain or to infringe on these copyrights. May you get hit by an I-2000 on the noggin if you don't believe me.

**Author's Note:** No Shin, Mickey, Greg, or McCoy (well, maybe a little, later). This fic just borrows the Asran setting and is an AU, and takes place on a different air base. Saki Vashtarl's faction has won control of the desert kingdom, but during his reign trouble flares up again. The descendants of the mercenary squadrons from Area 88 go into battle once more. Rated M for a lot of profanity.

* * *

**THROW A NICKEL ON THE SAND**

**I: Iffa**

The S-70 Jayhawk didn't even touch down on the helipad shimmering under the noonday desert sun. Hovering a foot above the concrete, its starboard cabin door opened, and a lone man in his early thirties jumped out. The helicopter increased power and left him crouching there in the flying brown dust.

He was watching the whirlybird disappear into the perfectly cloudless blue sky when a HMMWV pulled up behind him. The man behind the wheel of the vehicle honked his horn twice and motioned for him to enter. The newcomer accepted, grateful of the chance to come out of the searing heat that already had his flying suit plastered to his body.

"Hi, you must be the RIO I've been waiting for," the driver said as he got in. "I'm Mike Derwent."

The man gave Mike Derwent the once-over. Lanky, sandy-haired, with a face as craggy as the Rockies. "Name's Gary. Gary Heberlein. How'd you know I was a RIO?"

"Your patch." Mike pointed at Gary's shoulder. "I happen to know that squadron's transitioning to Hornets, and you wouldn't be here if you weren't out of a job."

Gary raised an eyebrow. "Kinda big assumptions. What if I was a pilot?"

The old man gunned the Humvee. "Naah. Couldn't be. All the pilots of that unit have been retained." He smirked. "It helps if you've got a friend up in J-2. How's your stay in Asran been so far?"

"Shitty. The heat, the lack of broads, the scorpions..."

"Really?" Mike grinned. "Well, fellow av-puke, we'll soon make you accustomed to all that." He made a panning gesture out the front window of the Humvee, at the dismally plain and uniformly tan set of buildings sitting in the emptiness in front of them like children huddled together in a refugee camp. "Welcome to the shithole that is Iffa!"

------oOo------

"We protect the capital city's northern approaches," Mike explained as they sat eating lunch in the noisy cafeteria. "But we're only one tenant here. The Royal Asranian Air Force would've kicked us out long ago, except that we provide them with a ready supply of warm bodies to go do the really dirty stuff." Gary blanched, but Mike seemed unfazed as he continued. "There are six of us who usually get called up when BarCAP or other long-range air-to-air work is needed. There's me—I mean us—and Gisette who fly Super Tomcats, and Wacko and Mulligan who fly F-14A Pluses."

"Who're the other two?" asked Gary as he ate another spoonful of the chalky-tasting gruel that passed itself off as beef stew.

"An Indian named Ker and his pal Vella. They ride around in a Su-30MKI, while the other's a Tornado ADV flown by two Brits named Hallaway and Podd." Derwent took another puff on his cigarette. "Ker's the newest of the bunch. His Flanker's usually used as an airborne director, so he gets to fly more frequently than the rest of us. You might've noticed that the Royals lack any planes with real good long-range radar capability, except for a few piddling Hawkeyes that are in serious need of overhauls and have to be positioned south and east."

"Yeah. Lots of old Soviet stuff, from what I read in an intelligence report before I got axed."

Derwent nodded. "You'll find out that they're still big on the 'positive control' stuff too, even though all the Royal pilots I've talked to hate it. We're 'foreign barbarians,' so they usually allow us a lot of leeway, though. But tell me something. Did you really think this thing over before you flushed yourself down the toilet to come here, or are you just plain looking for a way to kill yourself?"

Heberlein steadily met Derwent's suddenly critical gaze. "A bit of both. I didn't go through RIO school just to be booted out of the Navy a few years later. Besides, I like fighting."

The old man slowly grinned. "Put her there, pard," he said, extending his hand. "You want fighting, you'll get more than your share of it. Especially since the ruling family's had a major snit and is quibbling over the throne again."

The RIO examined the hand as if it were an animal he had never seen before. Then he took it and gave it a pump, joining his fate to a stranger's.

------oOo------

"Of course you'll have to have an IFF system that's compatible with the one the Asranians use. You probably won't need it much, since everyone who's been dumb enough to leave theirs on while conducting a mission is probably dead already. Yes?"

"I was wondering," said the blond-haired, Teutonic-featured pilot who had raised his hand, "what recreation there is for us available."

The woman conducting the orientation smiled, as if she had been expecting the question. "There is, offbase, a couple of bars and entertainment places available. Much to the displeasure of the locals, Saki Vashtarl's maintained them to provide you and the tourists who come here a place to blow off steam, as you say."

Another hand, this one belonging to a slim, dark-skinned youth with close-cropped hair as curly as steel wool. "I do not understand. So we cannot leave unless we serve for six years, or pay 2 million dollars?"

"Or desert." The black eyes behind the frameless, gold-pronged eyeglasses crinkled. "In which case you'll get shot. I'd like to point out to you how far it is from here to the nearest border."

At the back of the room, seated beside one another on the aluminum folding chairs, Heberlein whispered to Derwent. "Mike, who the hell is this broad again?"

"We call her Miss Britannica. Mina Desai. She used to be a pilot, but a crash several years ago put her on the disabled list. Since she had family up in the Air Force hierarchy, they couldn't get rid of her, so they compensated by giving her the crummy duties, like base beautification, orientation seminars, and notifying families of their loved one's death."

"Doesn't she get censured for wearing that?" Heberlein was referring to the form-fitting maroon dress she was wearing.

"Why, you complaining?"

"Not at all."

"Only don't bother going after her, pard. She doesn't like men, from what I've heard."

"Oh really?"

"Yeah. A couple tried to change her mind, but ended up singing falsetto parts in the Dresden Opera House." Derwent grinned.

Heberlein tuned back to the lecture in time to hear the black-haired lecturer say, "There will be an orientation flight for each of you newcomers the day after tomorrow, so get yourselves settled in and try and get your equipment today if you can. If not, well, you'll have to arrange for your own orientation joyride sometime." There was a mirthless, shark-like grin that showed off perfectly even teeth between the thin lips. "Preferably before you set out on a mission. Any more questions? Good, if you have any that come to mind you can ask your fellow pilots or call me on extension 138." She picked up her things and left, leaving the room abuzz.

"What was your last pilot like?" asked Derwent out of the blue.

"A screw-up in the beginning," Herberlein answered, his face going sour at the recollection. "On one of our first sorties he almost got us killed when he got vertigo in a cloud during a bad-weather night CAP and went inverted. Good thing the ceiling was high and he was able to recover. Other than that, he was okay."

"Pet peeves?"

"Hey, what is this? Twenty questions?"

"Look, I need to know. I'm about to trust you with my life in combat. All I know about you is what I've read in your dossier."

"Pet peeves, hm? Let's see. I hate people who think they can tell me how to operate my set, and I hate people who smoke."

"Oops," chuckled Derwent.

"And I hate screamers. There was this one time we were flying in a section on a low-level recon over Bandar Abbas, and some AA comes up and sprays us with fragments. All of a sudden there's this almighty scream over the radio from the two plane pilot, saying he's been hit. We all got palpitations and escorted him back to the boat, only to find him coming out of triage with a band-aid on the back of his neck. A frickin' band-aid."

"Yeah, well, you'll get those days. I'd rather have a screamer than a guy who goes in without saying a word. That disturbs me."

Heberlein was silent for a moment. "I also hate pilots who treat me like a voice-commanded radio tuner. If that's part of your gig, fine, but don't go telling me to change freqs every thirty seconds or so."

"Hey, man, that's supposed to be part of your duties."

"I know, I know. Still..."

"Hey, look. If you can get your gear from Supply and get yourself settled, we can go aviating by tomorrow."

Heberlein grinned. "Now that's something I like." As they got up, he said, "Wait a minute. What about your hang-ups?"

Derwent lit another ciggie and turned to go. "I don't like tattletales," he tossed over his shoulder.


	2. SAR CAP

**II: SAR CAP**

The desert sun was blazing into the cockpit of the F-14D as Derwent pointed out several landmarks to his greenhorn RIO.

"See that tall peak over there? That's Dinosaur Mountain. We are now exactly ten nautical miles directly north of Iffa. Until several years ago the attack pukes used to dump their bombs there prior to recovering at the base. Then the Asranians built a surveillance radar facility on it, and we had to stop doing that."

"What's with the 'we'?"

"I used to fly Big Ugly before I switched to this baby." To emphasize his fondness for his aircraft, Derwent did a snap roll. "You can't afford to be choosy 'bout missions here. She's also tricked out as a Bombcat, but I haven't gotten all the avionics in yet, so I'm limited to a pretty basic CCIP sight for mud moving."

"A Bombcat? With that TARPS pod hanging under this thing's ass?"

"Like I said, you can't be choosy. This way I can take on all kinds of missions. I'm not aiming to pull out of Asran yet, but I'd like the money to be there if and when I want to. Now where was I? Oh, yeah, you'll see the Dinosaur a lot because it's where we delouse the returning flights before coming to Iffa."

"Oh." Heberlein gave voice to the question that had been nagging him. "Mike, what happened to your previous RIO?"

"Ah, I knew there was something I forgot to tell you. He got himself full of mortar fragments one night last month, when the rebels raided the base. He's dead."

The silence from the rear seat was deafening.

------oOo------

They were passing over a small farm to the northwest of the city, its irrigated crops startling green circles against the tan desert sand, when a call came in from the local Tactical Air Control Center. It was a request for air cover for an ongoing search and rescue operation.

"Hot damn," the pilot exclaimed. There was an exchange that the backseater failed to understand for a moment. Then it dawned on him: Derwent was haggling with the person on the other end for his fee.

"Sixty-five on top of the gas and any munitions I might expend," the pilot insisted. The person objected. "Look, sixty-two's as low as I go. I've got my backseater to think about."

The argument ended with a badly overmodulated "We'll talk about it when you get back," from the unknown caller. The Tomcat banked to the south, and Heberlein could hear Derwent chuckling.

_What in God's name have I dropped myself into?_ he asked himself. He knew the mercenaries' payment system; it was explained to him in excruciating detail before he ever got here, by an ex-USMC Harrier jock who lived through Asran himself. Still, it was jarring to hear loyalty and duty being reduced to monetary terms.

"Iffa Control, Magic Zero-One," the pilot spoke. "Have a little change in my schedule." The throttles opened, and the speed slowly climbed to 520 knots as the Tomcat headed towards Heberlein's first mission.

------oOo------

To the RIO's eyes, the array of wadis known as the Kuhar, situated to the southwest of the capital, looked like some god had taken a rake to the stony desert countryside to try and cultivate life in this desolate place, then given up and let the furrows be.

"Keep your eyes peeled," Derwent warned him as they approached the area. "This is a bad place to be in. There are lots of little nooks for those pesky SA-7s and SA-16s to come out of." Then he made the call to the TACC. Lox sweet, two 'Winders, four hundred rounds of 20mm and two hours' playtime.

"Roger," came the reply. "Be advised MANPADS reported in the area. Unconfirmed."

"Jeez, thanks."

Derwent set up a right-hand orbit above the indicated SAR area at 12,000 feet—8,000 plus 4 thousand more for good measure, to keep them out of any Igla's range. Heberlein's EW set showed there were no threats in the immediate area, so the pilot slowed down to 420 knots. The Tomcat's swing wings automatically motored forward to compensate.

"You see anything down there?"

"Negative, except for that pillar of smoke."

"Okay, we'll wait. Rescue should be here soon."

About ten minutes later the chopper package contacted them. Two Blackhawks, one with ESSS, escorted by two AH-1Z Supercobras, would do the pickup. Rolling in just before them to sanitize the area would be one OA-10 and 3 A-10s, collectively known as Ripper Flight, also from Iffa.

"Hey, _paisano,_ good morning," Mike called as he spotted the sand-camouflaged flying tanks zooming in low from the northeast. "Bet you're grumpy having to get out of bed this early in the day."

"Yeah, good morning too, Mike," came the bass-toned reply of the OA-10 pilot. "Heard you got yourself a new backseater. He any good?"

"I can't tell yet, Louie. This is his orientation hop."

"Orientation? Hahaha! His first outing and he's already in action. Good luck to you."

Heberlein waited for the connection to clear, then pressed his own transmit button. "Thanks."

"Roger, Gorilla and Snake Flights, Rippers, let's all go to three-three-seven." The air went silent as the members of the rescue group switched frequencies.

"Gary, change channels, but don't talk."

"Your wish is my command."

"Huh. Maybe someday I'll dig a genie out of the sand down there and wish myself infinite amounts of pussy. Anything on the scope?"

"No. Nothing on both counts."

"Well, I guess we can just sit back and watch the show." The radio started to come alive as the various SAR elements began to coordinate their actions.

------oOo------

Giovanni Saffoni was a coarse-mannered brute of a man, the perfect complement to his A-10. He loved the bird so much that when his squadron transitioned to the hated F-16 he took it here, to the only other place outside of Afghanistan and Iraq that was using the ungainly, slow-moving Fairchild Republic/Rockwell contraption in combat.

Flying in an OA-10 meant he had to control the various rescue package elements. It was easier than usual, since all the choppers and Superhogs had radios that could talk to each other. He passed lead to his wingman, then peeled off to gain altitude.

Once he reached position, he tried once more to raise the pilot of the downed aircraft. He was rewarded with the ululating wail of a beeper, but there was no voice. He picked a point near the funeral pyre and dove toward it, searching for any sign of life on the ground.

Fingers of tracer fire leapt up to greet him. He tipped his A-10 on one wing, passing between them, and saw a gray-bagged figure sprawled on the ground, waving to him. He leveled off and wagged his wings, signaling to the man that help was on the way.

"Okay, folks, I've spotted our package, Striker Two. He seems okay, but can't use voice. Rippers, set up for strafing, with runs from Florida to New York. Hold high and dry until I call you. FAC is in to mark."

Saffoni waited for the requisite two minutes, then snap-turned his baby around and headed back into the seething cauldron of fire.

------oOo------

"Magic Zero-One, TACC. Gold Control has trade for you."

Mike muttered the usual 'ah, shit' before keying the radio. "Roger, switching to Gold Control." He told Gary to dial in Gold Control. "Gold Control, this is Magic Zero-One. Be advised, we are not decked out for long-distance shooting."

"Roger, Zero-One, we're aware of that. Trade is one ALS Piranha, off your nose at bearing zero-nine-eight, angels two-four, distance eighty-three kilometers."

"Ah, roger, Gold Control. Zero-One is moving to intercept."

While Mike was busy setting the F-14's course, Gary asked, "What the hell is a Piranha? I've never heard of it."

"I'm not surprised. It's an old design, done by a Swedish consortium of scientists way back in the 1980s. It never took off until an Arab aircraft conglomerate picked it up and ran a few thousand copies off the assembly line."

"So, what the hell is it? Is it a threat?"

"Close up it is. It's a delta-wing one-seater with a canard, one engine, no fly-by-wire, and no radar. Out here they're as common as flies on cattle dung, since they're so cheap, and since no one makes Fagots and Fishbeds and Fitters and Tigers any more. And because everyone and his brother in this region has good quality mobile GCI truck sets, the Piranha's lack of a radar isn't much of a drawback. In fact, we're starting to see some types modified with high-quality IRST cameras in the nose so they can fire off-bore Magics and Archers at their opponents."

"Shit. We've only got two Sidewinders, why'd you take the call?"

"Money, my dear boy. Tell you what, we haven't talked about it, so let's make a deal now. Fifty-fifty is my usual slice."

"That's fine with me, Mike. Now about that Piranha..."

"You worry too much. I've tangled with them before, and only needed the gun."

"Geez, I hope you know what you're doing."

"Trust me. You know, like what that Sledgehammer guy on TV used to say. Trust me, I know what I'm doing. Now do your job and break him out on the set, so I can start planning his demise."

------oOo------

Saffoni noted the departure of the Tomcat and shrugged inwardly. Hell, they didn't need him. At low altitudes ground fire was a worse threat than interceptors, and with the dual Sidewinders on their starboard wing launchers, they could take care of themselves anyway.

He fired his second white phosphorous rocket of the day and keyed his mike. "Alright, Rippers. Strafe along my smoke, but don't hit west of it. You might hit our guy."

"Two."

"Three."

"Four."

"Roger, cleared in hot, guns only, whoever's first. Call the FAC in sight."

After around thirty seconds there was the call: "Two's in hot." One A-10 snap-turned into the line of attack. There was a thin trail of smoke which issued from the GAU-8 30mm cannon in the nose of the aircraft, then the Hog pulled away. Fountains of dirt rose from the ground as HE slugs slammed into the earth and exploded, sometimes carrying with them bits of flesh and clothing and equipment.

"Two's off."

"Three's in hot."

------oOo------

"There he is, Mike. I think Gold Control is trying to put us on a collision course."

"Yeah, they usually do that. We usually call our own once we get into missile range."

"Right." The seconds ticked away, and the miles sped past them.

------oOo------

Lieutenant Mustapha was having a bad day. He was running a routine patrol with his wingman when they were asked to investigate a portion of the Kuhar. They made several passes over it, and on the last ground fire reached out to them, and his Mirage F1 got hit by a SAM. He managed to nurse the crippled aircraft away from the place and broadcast a Mayday, but the engine ground itself into a frozen mess and he was forced to eject. His wingman, who had gotten peppered as well, had to leave him for an emergency landing at Asran's International Airport.

Unfortunately for him, like most pilots he suffered injuries in the bailout. In his case, his spine was compressed, making movement painful and difficult, and he had sprained his left ankle.

Now he was lying in a shallow ditch in the earth, surrounded by the sheer walls of the wadi on two sides. The rebels in the area hadn't pinpointed him yet; Fortune had allowed him that grace. He squinted into the cloudless sky and rechecked his emergency radio for the umpteenth time. No, as far as he could tell it was still broken. High above him, a speck showed the continuing presence of the mercenaries who were supposed to rescue him. No one in the Royal Asranian Air Force liked them—at least, no one he knew. But in exchange for somewhat trivial sums of money the heathens _did_ do their jobs well, he had to admit. He just hoped this was one of those times.

------oOo------

The strafing and clearing continued for fifteen minutes, then Saffoni made a low pass and told Gorilla and Snake flights it was okay to try for their target.

The lead Snake pilot broke into a feral grin. His name was Bondoc, and he had been itching for some action for some weeks now.

"Roger, Ripper Leader, Snakes coming in first. Gorillas, keep back until we've swept the area."

The pair of chunky-angled, thin-bodied attack helicopters whirred into the pickup vicinity and found only meager opposition confronting them. They hosed the enemy with their miniguns and let loose a hail of rockets at a particularly stubborn group of laagered personnel carriers before calling the Blackhawks in.

------oOo------

Some distance away the Tomcat and Piranha were close to IR missile range.

"Gold Control, Magic One is Judy," Mike transmitted, indicating that he was taking over the engagement.

"Copy, Magic One."

"Judy?" Gary strained against the seat straps. "You mean you can see the fucker already?"

"Yeah. Kinda handy. Are we dead on his nose?"

"Yep. No offset. He's heading straight for us, slightly climbing."

"Ah, roger."

The seconds passed, and there was the wail of the EW set, indicating that an IR missile had been launched at them.

"Missile–!"

"I see it, shut up," Mike grunted as he snapped the 'Cat into a barrel roll and punched out a stream of flares. Some seconds later Gary could see the missile pass far below their inverted canopy, heading for the decoys.

"You shithead!" the pilot shouted at the same time his backseater gripped the DACT handles on the canopy rail and, tracking the missile, yelled they were clear. "You spoiled my solution!" Gary felt the Tomcat wiggle a bit, then heard the _brrrt_ of the M61 cannon. A stream of orange tracers came from the port side of the Tomcat's nose, arcing off into the blue.

_What the fuck is he shooting at?_ the RIO wondered. Several seconds later it became evident, as a blossom of fire appeared in the sky in front of them.

"Haha!" Mike boomed into the intercom. "And another one bites the dust!" Gary watched a fiery trail slowly begin to trace itself in the thin air, heading for the earth below. "That's sixty thousand lovely ones for us, my boy!"

"Crap, man," the backseater said. "I'm sorry I disturbed you."

"What? Oh, that wasn't for you, that was for that poor fucker." He dipped the wing towards the spiraling Piranha. "See? I told you you worried too much." The pilot got back on the horn, to inform Gold Control of their situation, and that they were returning to the SAR site. Then he attaboyed his new RIO and told him he did good so far.

------oOo------

Three hours later found the entire SAR crew in the _Blue Horse,_ a bar just outside the main gates of Iffa AB. It was where the mercs went to cool off, Mike said, and was owned by the family of one of the first generations of Asranian aerial mercenaries—no doubt he knew that such a place was needed.

They were all at the bar, nursing, imbibing, and spilling various drinks. Already buzzing with the poison of their choice, the airplane drivers, the chopper pukes and SAR crewmen were singing one of their most profane songs, as the injury-treated, bemused (and horrified) Lieutenant Mustapha, who confined himself to an orange juice with soda water, looked on.

_Pigfucker Farm, Pigfucker Farm,  
That's the place to lose all your charm  
A place where you'll surely come to harm  
Oh, my Pigfucker Farm_

_Oh, Pigfucker Farm is dandy  
It looks like a shithole's daddy  
Since the mortars are always handy  
Ain't no peace in a place this sandy_

_Pigfucker Farm, Pigfucker Farm,  
Its pilots are no good at all  
They puke in the pit, step in their shit,  
And outside it have no forehead at all._

_Oh, Pigfucker Farm, Pigfucker Farm..._


	3. The New Arrivals

**III. THE NEW ARRIVALS**

The next day Mike Derwent brought his partner to a place of particular interest for the flying mercs of Iffa.

"Tell me again what this place is," the RIO whispered as their footsteps echoed in the cavernous hangar.

"It's Magicland," Mike repeated, encompassing with a sweep of his arm the brightly-lit airconditioned space. "You got the money, you come here and get your plane customized, like I'm doing."

"No shit?"

"No goddamn shit. This has also got to be the greatest repository of stolen aircraft plans and engineering documents in the world," the pilot confided.

Gary Heberlein's response was an awed "Damn."

They made their way to one of the offices jutting out from the side of the hangar like a tan-colored shoebox. Peering through the open jalousies, Mike called, "Yoohoo! McCoy! You in there?"

"I'm out here, flyboy!" called a female voice. The two aviators turned and saw a woman in overalls, standing on a gantry by an F-16's wingtip, waving to them. Gary raised an eyebrow.

"The head herself," Mike said. "Suzanne McCoy. You tell her what you want done, she tells you if it's feasible, and charges you an arm and a leg for it." He laughed. "I don't mind, since nothing she and her team's ever done to my Cat has failed."

They came up to the foot of the gantry. "Hi, McCoy."

"Hi, yourself." The woman's paper-like skin creased in a thousand lines and wrinkles as she smiled at him. She was Caucasian, appeared to be around forty years old, and her washed-out brown hair matched the faded brown texture of her overalls. "Don't tell me you still want me to turn your bird into fly-by-wire."

"Naah. Maybe if I'm still here six years from now. Too expensive. Oh, meet my new RIO, Gary Heberlein."

McCoy nodded. "What brings you here then?"

"Haven't the bombing avionics for my Cat arrived yet?"

"Nope. Me bucko, there are wars other than the delightful little one we have here, and they're placing demands on the instrument makers."

"War's good business," Gary stated, his face straight.

"Yeah. You get the money, someone else gets the death. I could give you that Elisra package."

"No way, I don't want it. Then I'd be out of action for two whole months while you tried to find space inside my baby for it."

"I keep telling you to lose the second seat," McCoy said, looking apologetically at Gary. "Nothing personal."

"No problem," he reassured her.

"And I keep telling you I like having a backseater," Mike returned. "He keeps me honest."

"That'll be the day."

Gary pointed to the Falcon. "What's up with this bird?"

"Oh, the pilot's been having problems with the wingtip missile rails. I've traced the problem to the AIMRIUs."

"AIMRIUs?"

"AIM Rail Interface Units. This is an old Block Thirty-Eight, belongs to a Pakistani pilot named Yasrudin. AIMRIU problems used to plague that bunch. Either the RIU's electronics would fail or they would bend under high-g loads and get disconnected or broken. So I'm reinforcing them. That should solve the problem cheaply."

"Hmm. He won't use a newer Viper?"

"Naah. Some people are stubborn that way." McCoy looked straight at Mike as she said it.

"Hey! My baby's got a lot of life left in her. And if Vashtarl ever decides to buy an aircraft carrier, I'll be ready."

McCoy laughed. "An aircraft carrier for this godforsaken sandbox? What's he going to do, put little wheels on the keel and run it across the desert like a transporter from Dune or Star Wars?"

The Tomcat crew grinned. "Hey," said Mike, "if his enemies were crazy enough to tunnel through the rock below this place before, why not that?"

The sudden howling scream that passed above the hangar and shook it interrupted all conversation.

"What the fuck?" Gary involuntarily exclaimed, crouching.

"That's probably the visitors who're scheduled to arrive today," said McCoy.

"Who?" asked Mike.

"Couple of test pilots from god-knows-where, come here to do OT on brand-new thingamajigs for their manufacturers. The stuff they're bringing along is quite interesting, I can tell you."

The pilot raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Yeah, it's bleeding-edge. I can't tell you more, you'd have to see for yourself."

Interest stirred, Mike asked McCoy if she had any estimate on when his avionics would arrive. When she answered that she didn't, he told her he'd be back and went outside to watch the new arrivals. Gary followed him.

------oOo------

The four F/A-18Es did a nice, tight turn to final and landed ahead of the six C-130s, who in Gary's eyes also did a respectable job or bringing their birds to earth, for a bunch of trash-haulers.

"Well, I'll be," said Mike, watching with him from just outside the hangar as the evergreen Hercules variants landed one by one on the 6/24 runway. "It's a goddamned Compass Call. Wonder what it's doing here." The X-shaped antenna on the turboprop's tail marked the communications tracker and jammer for what it was.

"Isn't that an ABCCC?" Gary asked of another Herky Bird, which had an extra section added forward of its vertical tail.

"Hell, yeah. What is this, a circus? What's the USAF doing sending them here? I thought everyone wanted them in their TAOR." His eyes slitted. "McCoy was right, this is quite interesting. My sphincter's reaching up and grabbing my heart."

"W-What?" Gary asked, chuckling at the same time.

"I mean I've got a bad feeling about this. The third Herc's a DC-130."

"A drone director?"

"Yeah. See the big pylons under the wings? Shit, what are they going to do here?"

"Heck, I wish I knew."

------oOo------

The aviators waited and watched as the heavily-laden F/A-18Es got parked near them and cut engines and opened canopies at the same time. Mike grudgingly gave their Blue Angels-worthy performance high marks. A Humvee and a Unimog truck sped up to the aircraft; the former collected the pilots and brought them to Mina Desai's office, a couple of buildings away from McCoy's hangar, while the people in the latter set about putting reflective covers on the Hornets' canopies and tags on the ordnance and aircraft.

"I wonder who those pilots are," Gary mused. "Maybe I've seen them around."

"Maybe. C'mon, let's go back to the barracks. We've got an Alert to stand tomorrow, like I told you."

------oOo------

Gary gathered his things to prepare for the temporary move to the Theater Air Base Vulnerability shelter. There were eighteen of the armored underground hangars and bunkers, positioned in groups of three and six at the ends of Iffa's two runways. Aircraft which stood Alert—meaning they could take off in 30, 15, 10, 5, or 2 minutes to intercept attackers—were stationed there, and for convenience's sake each TAB-V also had crew quarters which were Spartan but complete.

There was a knock on his door, and before he could go open it the person outside did that for him. The sweatbagged RIO found himself staring at an old, expressionless face. The man had blond hair and was wearing a modern gray flight suit, his g-vest and leggings still on, his helmet bag in one hand and his issue dark-blue travel bag in the other.

"Oh, sorry," he said quietly. "I thought this room was empty."

"I'm staying here," Gary replied. He jerked a thumb. "But the one next to mine's empty. I'm Gary Heberlein," he offered, extending his hand.

The man looked at his hand for a long time before shaking it with the one holding the helmet bag. "Shin Kazama."

"You know, you should dump those things in the PE room."

Shin Kazama looked at him with those empty eyes. "I know. I just wanted to find a room first. You're new here, aren't you?"

"Yeah. Only a couple of days in."

The man gave him the same look one would give a leper. "I see."

"And you're one of the Hornet pilots, am I right?"

"Yeah. Sorry to bother you." The pilot quietly closed the door.

Gary went back to his things. Uncommunicative bastard, he thought.

------oOo------

Shin Kazama opened the door of the next room. The bare brick walls brought back memories, memories of an earlier war, an earlier Asran. He didn't want to come back here, but once again his love of flying betrayed him. When the company he was working for as a test pilot had told him to shut up and move his ass to this hellhole or get out, there was very little he could do, save kiss Ryouko and his son goodbye.

_It's been years, Saki,_ he thought. _I wonder what you'd think if you knew Mickey and I were back._ _Then again, you probably already know that by now._ He dumped his carryall onto the hard bunk, stripped his g-suit, and checked the room out briefly. Then he left for the nearby PE room to deposit his helmet and pressure suit and sidearm. The memories went with him.

------oOo------

"Since the Asran conflict is relatively unknown internationally, the US government thought doing operational testing here would be a good idea. So we want you to extend them every courtesy, as they'll be with us for a long time," Mina Desai concluded that afternoon. "Welcome again, gentlemen, and we're also sorry you're here." She once again presented her smile, to mesh with the scattering of laughs from the audience in the auditorium. "Especially you, Mister Simon, Mister Kazama."

The meeting broke up. Seats were folded, people stood and headed for the exits. The named pair lingered behind, however.

"Hard to believe we're in this place now, when we used to kill the pilots flying out of here before," said the ex-Navy Mickey Simon. He watched the retreating backs of the Iffa flyers. "Doesn't looking at them make you feel old, Shin?"

"Yeah. But there are some gray-haired ones among them too."

"Yeah, but some of them seem just as old as Kim Aba would be now."

"I know. But why should that surprise you, Mick? Fighting is the province of the young, with their hot blood and idealism. Us old soldiers know better."

"Huh." The blond American, still handsome at his age, smiled snidely. "You know how Area 88 tested us. In the end the only ones left were the hardcore and the war dogs. Us. All the pansies and glory hounds cleared out or died long before that."

"So?"

"So I'm saying we old dogs might still have a trick or two to show these young 'uns. We've been in the business longer than they have. We know what it's like to _really_ fight. Not for fame, not for fortune, just for the sheer _love_ of fighting."

"I don't doubt that. I wouldn't underestimate them, though. They're still alive, so that means they must be doing something right." Shin started to move off.

"Hey, where are you going?"

"I want to ask Miss Desai if I can make a phone call. I want to tell Ryouko I'm fine."

------oOo------

That night there was a general brouhaha in the barracks. "Star walk!" Giovanni Saffoni, the A-10 pilot, yelled happily in reply to Gary's question. "We have a group trip to the Star every so often," he explained in a low voice to the baffled RIO. When the puzzled face wouldn't go away, he said in a low voice, "It's a brothel, you idiot."

"Oh." That explained everything.

"Well, whatcha standing there for? Aintcha coming?"

"Naah. It's not my thing."

"Whaaaat? Holy shit, don't tell me you're queer!"

"Nope. Mike and I got an Alert Five to pull tomorrow. Can't do that if I'm all tuckered out."

"Oh. Well, see you, then."

Gary did visit the _Blue Horse,_ though. The first thing he saw upon entering was Mina Desai seated by herself at the bar, nursing a drink. She was all alone, smoking a ciggie, and the RIO's hormones made him forget what Mike had told him on his first day about her attitude towards men. He ordered a drink and immediately made a beeline for her. Truly, Iffa aircrew devolved into all balls and no forehead when outside the base...

"Hi."

Mina Desai turned her eyeglasses on him. "Hi. You looking for company?"

Gary nodded.

"I'm not. Get lost, flyboy."

"You act like that towards everyone?"

"What do you think?"

"I don't think anything. I'm new."

"I know you are, Mister Heberlein."

"So couldn't you cut me some slack, Miss Desai? I'm not looking to hassle you."

"They all say that." She took a long drag from her cigarette and blew a large cloud of smoke into the air. "Fine, sit down. You can talk to me all you want. I won't answer."

_Goddamn. What a bitch._ Gary sat down and took a swallow of his drink. "You know, your attitude doesn't go well with your looks."

The woman just kept smoking and drinking.

"How come you don't get back on flying status?"

That made her stop and look at him. "What's it to you, _ibn kalb?_"

"Nothing. You just don't seem like the type who'd let her country go to hell in a handbasket without doing something about it, that's all."

"That's BS, as you Americans put it. My family's at odds with other factions in the government, and they've threatened to kill my parents and brothers and sisters if I ever took an active role in the Air Force again. There's nothing physically wrong with me, contrary to popular lie. That's just a rumor I spread around to save my family's name."

"So you mean you're letting all your talent go to waste?"

"Talent? What talent? Killing people is a talent? It's a curse, don't you know that?" The RAAF officer finished her drink and ordered another.

"I'm not talking about killing people. I'm talking about flying. None of us is an angel, Miss Desai. Didn't they beat that crap into you in flying school?"

"Yes, along with a million other things I don't really want to remember." She looked at him and raised her new glass. "Cheers, Mister Heberlein. You are a lens, through which the anger of my country is focused. Fuck war."

Gary raised his mug. "Fuck war." They spent the next two hours in companionable silence.


	4. The One–Eyed Man is King

**IV: THE ONE-EYED MAN IS KING**

The operational life of an IDS Tornado is spent at low level, down in the weeds where also lived the A-10, the Grach, and various attack helicopters. The aircraft which began life as a quad-national program and was known initially as the Multi-Role Combat Aircraft had three main variants, an attack model (the IDS), an interceptor version (the ADV), and a filmless reconnaissance iteration (the GR.4A, specific to the Royal Air Force) that was a late addition to the stable. The mud-mover was among the best in the world at what it did, and had won several bombing competitions over its more well-known rivals in the 1980s.

But there was no denying that it was growing a bit long in the tooth, what with the basic design being frozen in the early 1970s, and the advent of fifth-generation fighters like the Eurofighter Typhoon, the Dassault Rafale, and the Saab Gripen. So, to bulk up their order book in the early 1990s, the Panavia consortium had offered various new and second-hand examples at a discount to the Asranians, who didn't need stealth or the very newest technology, but required an aircraft with more capability than their aging Phantoms and lightweight Hawks. The air arm snapped it up, and consequently (for reasons of commonality and parts availability) the IDS could also be found among Iffa's mercenary squadrons, where it was a familiar sight on ground-attack missions.

One such example, a late-build GR.4, was zooming one afternoon low over the tan-brown desert sands, flying nap-of-the-earth in an effort to avoid being detected by its target and the numerous sentinels guarding it. Crewing it were two ex-RAF aviators, who forty minutes into the circuitous, workload-filled low-level flight were busy sniping at each other.

"Hey, Motts," said the Weapons System Officer, "better increase throttle. Look at the TEL."

"I see it, you bloody idiot," snorted the front-seater. "I'm worried that Shin Kazama fellow's going to release his missiles any time now and we'll end up flying though a whole bunch of them."

"Relax, I don't think that'll happen."

"Huh. Who asked you?"

"What _will_ happen if you don't move it is that every 2S6 and Shilka in the target area's going to be homing in on us because we'll be the only ones left to shoot at. I'd personally like to come back to Iffa without sixteen 9M311s shoved up my arse, please. That makes it hard to sit down for dinner."

"Right, right, keep your skullcap on." Philby Motts keyed in an increase to the Tornado GR.4's Turbo-Unions. The ACDR Autothrottle display reflected his adjustment, and the ground-skimming attack craft flew faster towards the next turn point.

------oOo------

"Today's PM Go target is one of the rebels' main fixed radar installations," the attack Warlord—the guy in charge of the main mission—said several hours earlier. "We would have gone after it sooner, but we've changed the attack plan slightly so—" the man diplomatically cleared his throat "­­— Mister Simon and Mister Kazama may participate in it."

The Warlord went over the basics of the plan developed by Asranian targeteers and weaponeers, referring to the giant satellite photo projected onto the big auditorium screen. It involved a pincer by two attack packages—known as Astra Blue and Astra Gold—against the radar transmitter. Each package consisted of six Panavia Tornado GR.4s, six BAe Hawk 200s from the Royal Asranian Air Force as additional bombers and escorts, and Shin and Mickey's F/A-18Es. Because of the sudden scarcity of aircraft—most of which were involved in a sortie surge against a major rebel offensive far to the south—all the attack aircraft were armed with anti-radiation missiles and heatseekers along with their bomb loads. In addition, each package's Five and Six aircraft were devoted solely to defense suppression, having nothing to strike other than known AA installations. The radar facility was considered a very hard target, hence the large number of attackers, to ensure a reasonable Probability of Kill—no one wanted to have to go back and strike it again just because some GP bombs or BSU-49s had dribbled off the sides of the wedding-cake structure and failed to destroy it; semi-armour-piercing bombs, much better suited to that type of building, were in short supply at the Iffa depot. A newbie nicknamed Bug had come up with the idea of using a BLU-109B penetrator against the site, until he was asked if he wanted to be the one to come in against it at medium altitude so it could deploy properly. He declined the invitation.

Shin and Mickey's jobs were to drop four JDAM munitions equipped with a new, higher-dB GPS link against peripheral targets, and try out the as-yet-untested Wide-Area Anti-Radiation Missile pods they had brought along with them. Their F/A-18Es actually were a sort of proto-Growler, having some of the electronics of the projected future Wild Weasel version of the Hornet installed in them, and the WAARMs were a spin-off of the never-built WASP missile of the 1980s. The concept was to release a cloud of small loitering ARMs in the target area to provide continuous suppression. Personally, the two thought that idea was full of holes, but they weren't there to criticize, they were there to do empirical tests and report their findings.

------oOo------

"IP! Here we go!"

The Tornado reefed itself into a dangerously tight turn—dangerous for a 16-ton aircraft 200 feet off the ground, traveling at 550 knots with wings swept at their maximum 67 degrees—and settled on its new and final course towards the target.

"Check switches," David Fulton reminded his pilot.

There was a moment's pause. "Confirmed." The Time Early/Late indicator was showing them just a hair late, less than a second. Their threat warning indicator was full of lights, all showing SAM and AAA radars tracking them. A sudden line of tracers zoomed up into the bright desert sky.

"I've got Hot Shot to starboard," Philby Motts said.

"Yeah. It's not pointed at us. ECM's on." The Skyshadow pods on the outer pylons of the Tornado's wings were radiating.

The time ran down, and the ground rush was loud in the cockpit as the Tornado neared its release point.

------oOo------

Some 20,000 feet above and a few miles to the south Shin Kazama and Mickey Simon fired their first shots in anger. Each F/A-18E dispatched four small missiles with large wings, which rocketed down to their preprogrammed loiter area.

"This is Lancer Flight," Shin transmitted. "Missiles away."

------oOo------

"Bombs away, bombs away!" said the pilot of the last of the Asranian Hawks as he dumped his own ordnance on a power relay substation due southeast of the radar building. He swore as the Tornado he was accompanying suddenly swerved off course, away from him. He didn't waste breath trying to contact the mercenary: there was just too much to do, this low, trying to stay alive.

------oOo------

"Motts!"

"Hold on, I think I saw something."

"Well, for God's sake let's not get shot down just because your bloody ass got itchy!" Fulton shouted.

"Did you get our BDA?" the pilot calmly asked as he raised the Tornado's nose to get above the rest of the incoming attack tracks. Deconfliction of aircraft running in by altitude was considered, but quickly discarded: no pilot in the strike package wanted to be at two or five thousand when everyone else was at one thousand feet, five hundred, and two hundred. With everyone dropping their loads more or less at the same time, lateral separation was the only real option, and the one the Asranian planners had selected. And now, for Motts and Fulton, there was no sense in colliding during the operationbecause they had gone off their preplanned route and time It would be embarrassing, to say the least. The British aircrew had their pride, which still rankled at adopting a Luftwaffe _pilotten_ tactic for this attack. Never mind that virtually every major jet air force in the world had its own version of the _Knobbelsdorf,_ which they just called by different names.

"Of course not, you twit! Not with the stunt you pulled!"

"Well, get it now. We're leaving."

Fulton shut up and held onto the canopy handles as he twisted to look out the top of the canopy at their target, which was coming back into view because of Mott's sudden turn.

"No BDA, O Great One. Too much dust and smoke."

"Ah, shit," Motts grumbled as three tracer streams began to rise from the ground, trying to give them a tungsten-pellet-and-shrapnel hosing. He jinked the Tornado vertically by adjusting his ride height, and twice was able to avoid the deadly 30mm explosive projectiles. A new stream came up from their forward port quarter, and he was just about to slap the autopilot off and honk the attack aircraft into a turn when the tracer stream was suddenly cut off. There was an explosion at the antiaircraft fire's point of origin. It looked like a tiny version of a mushroom cloud.

_Thank you, Shin Kazama, Mickey Simon, _Philby Motts said silently as he slid back down to 200 feet AGL over the brown desert and back on track. He was pretty sure it was one of them. It could've been someone firing a HARM or an ALARM, but there were no indirect ALARM launches scheduled any time during this mission, and anti-radiation missile explosions didn't look like mushroom clouds. The only munitions he knew that had that signature were the Durandal anti-runway bomb and its Russian equivalent. True, the Asranians had that French munition in stock, but it no one was possibly fragged to carry it today...

In the hazy distance he spotted a dot flying away from him, also at low level, and knew it was his wingman, the RAAF Hawk. He pushed the throttle to catch up with it, warning its pilot of their approach from his lower port rear.

------oOo------

Philby Motts and David Fulton stood at attention in the debriefing room as the attack Warlord laid into their asses.

"Just what sort of stunt were you trying to pull, eh, Motts?" the Warlord said, pacing in front of them, his voice becoming more clipped as he grew angrier. "You put everyone in danger with your unauthorized actions. If you wanted to die, why didn't you just tell me beforehand, shit-for-brains? I could've just blown your head off with my sidearm and be done with it. No need to go risking an expensive aircraft or a rather important mission."

"Sir, it was for a very good reason," the pilot replied, unperturbed. Posturing bantams like the Warlord didn't bother him.

"And what might that be?"

The ex-RAF flier began to explain.

------oOo------

"Aw, you've got to be kidding me," said Mike Derwent in disbelief as he pulled the tab on a Coke and chugged it down. He was lying on the rec room couch in shorts and t-shirt, having just come back from the south of Asran with almost everybody else. It was late in the afternoon, and the sun was already on its way to setting over the desert. Outside, there was the chest-rumbling roar of engines as two F-15s began their takeoff roll, on their way to their CAP stations. "You expect me to believe the rebs are trying to use those subsurface attack craft again?"

"Yeah," seconded Saffoni as he looked up from the billiard table, where he was playing a game with two of his fellow A-10 pilots, Gary Heberlein, and Super Tomcat pilot Tommy Gisette and his RIO, a dour, silent fellow by the name of Kahn. "Didn't Vashtarl install a geophone system to prevent that from ever happening again?"

"Hey, if you don't believe me," said Mickey Simon, leaning back against the doorframe of the rec room entrance, "check the Predator photos out at Intelligence. That Tornado pilot saw a tunneling machine setup alright."

"Well, maybe the rebels were digging for oil," said Gisette, trolling for comments.

"Horizonally, and near their precious radar? I don't think so. If Astra hadn't destroyed the transmitter they would've been months releveling the site and recalibrating their precious radar, with all that digging going on." They remained silent as the billiard game continued and the noise of the Pratt & Whitneys faded into the distance.

A throat was cleared, and Mickey looked up to see Mina Desai standing just outside the door.

"Well. It's good to see ops security doesn't suffer when you're around, Mister Simon," she said acerbically, stepping into the room. She was dressed as spiffily as ever, in a chartreuse blouse and pale tan pants. "I'm surprised you're already fraternizing with this bunch. I thought you'd be keeping to yourself, like your partner Mister Kazama."

Mickey grinned lazily. "Shin's a misanthropic wallflower. Always was, always will be. Me, I'm totally different."

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah." He got off the doorframe and pushed his hands into his flying suit's pockets. "Like are you free later? I'd like to go out to dinner, and what better way to spend a quiet evening than with someone as smart and attractive as you?"

From the billiard table came one last _click_ of a ball being hit as everyone stopped what they were doing and looked at Mickey and Mina. A hush descended over the room as the two continued to exchange words in voices so quiet no one else could hear what was being said. The nerve of this old fart, was the collective thought of all the Iffa pilots.

"Alright, but strictly on business," Mina Desai said finally. Listening to her, Derwent thought with a flicker of glee that she had somehow finally been put on the defensive. It had always irritated him that she was never as affable as the previous liaison had been. "Oh, and I came to tell you, one of the Hercules commanders wants to see you. And the rest of you people: there's a briefing at oh-six-hundred in the auditorium. Be there."

"What did the Herky commander want to see me about?" Mickey asked, never taking his eyes off the dusky woman's.

"He didn't say." She returned his gaze for a few seconds, then left.

Mike quickly got off the sofa and discreetly looked out the window. After he had seen Mina Desai board her Humvee and drive off, he howled in glee and turned to Mickey.

"How'd you do that?" he exclaimed. "She hates guys, especially us pilots."

The blond-haired man just smiled and leaned back against the door.

------oOo------

Shin watched the telemetry readout from his Hornet's specialized Data Transfer Cartridge scroll across the CRT one last time before returning his hands to his Tempest-cleared Mission Planning System terminal, switching pages, and pecking a few more words into his report. The 'PC in an ugly olive-green box' was an essential part of their Super Hornet's equipment, as it was needed to program the aircraft's avionics in order for it to fly. Shin had chosen to set the terminal part of the MPS here in Magicland for the moment, where he could be reasonably sure it would be safe from tampering yet still be available for his use. Things were happening so fast, the rooms they and the USAF contingent would use as their offices were not even set up, but he needed to fire this report off as soon as possible.

He felt satisfied that evening. The WAARMs had worked as advertised, which would make one manufacturing group very happy, and while the attack crews suffered some hits and injuries (which included an idiot who, on an adrenalin high after evading so many SAMs, forgot that the inner doors leading to the equipment room were made of clear, bullet-resistant plastic and had slammed into them at full force, almost breaking his nose), no one was downed. Shin had to search far back into his memory before recalling an attack mission in the old days as major as this one that went without at least one loss.

The door to the office he was using opened, and in stepped Suzanne McCoy, bearing two Styrofoam-packed meals and two bottles of beer.

"Hey, Shin."

"Hello, Suzanne. Thanks for letting me use your place."

"No problem. I hate writing reports as much as you do, so better to get it over with quickly, right?"

"Yeah."

McCoy placed a package and bottle beside Shin's laptop. He opened the beer by slapping it against the table's edge, then looked up at the boss of Iffa's Magicland.

"What?" McCoy asked, slightly unnerved by the steady blue eyes scrutinizing her. "Is there a booger on my nose?"

Shin chuckled. "No, it's just that you remind me very much of your uncle."

"Well, as long as I don't get a face as wrinkled as his, that's fine with me."

Taking a swig of his beer, the old veteran eyed the acoustic tiles in the ceiling.

"What're you thinking about, Shin?"

"Nothing much. The guys here are quite different from the ones I flew with."

"How so?"

"They aren't so grim and gloomy, like we were." He set his beer on the table. "They're more sophomoric than we used to be, playing practical jokes and acting like a bunch of kids out on a dream vacation. I guess the world _is_ made up of all kinds of people."

McCoy was silent for a moment. " I wouldn't call it a vacation, but yeah, they are kinda kooky, aren't they? I've often wondered at it myself. I guess the only explanation for their being cheerful is that almost all of them are people with nothing to go back to, and nothing to lose. You had Ryouko to think about, and yet you almost didn't get out of Asran yourself, according to Uncle."

"Yeah." McCoy thought the old pilot wanted to say something more, but he kept his mouth shut.

"You ever think of getting out of this business? There aren't a lot of you McCoys."

Suzanne sighed. "Right, go home and have kids, a whole houseful of them. I'll never hear the end of it from you chauvinists. How would you feel if you were forced out of the cockpit, hmm?"

Shin just stared at her.

"See? Lay off me and we'll get along just fine." McCoy cracked open her own bottle and raised it. "To absent friends," she said.

Shin tapped his brew against hers. "To absent friends," he echoed, and they both drank, to the ones who were not there, the ones who were there but wished they were somewhere else, and the ones who had joined that stream of warplanes making their eternal way across an infinitely clear blue sky.


End file.
